It's A Long Way Up From Rock Bottom
by EpicJellyfish7
Summary: Companion fic to "It's Lonely at the Top." America might not have hit his lowest low just yet, at least, he hasn't in the weary eyes of centuries-old Nations. But when the world turns its back on Germany, America is there with open ears and outstretched hands. He'll be the hero he's always wanted to be. GerMerica. T for WWII.
1. May 9th, 1915

A/N: Well this is four years too late, isn't it? I've always felt this rare-pair had such interesting undertones that no one has really explored outside of a few angsty one-shots. I wanted to try and do them justice. As this is a companion fic, you don't necessarily have to read Lonely first, but there will be references and a few repeated dates, just told from a different perspective. This will also be a multi-chapter fic, not a longshot. I was partially inspired by the fantastic character study fic "We All Fall Down," and "Breaking," a brilliant 9/11 tribute, so go check them out if you have time. Give them some love. Their authors worked hard on them.

* * *

**May 9th, 1915**

Who was this upstart America? It was just one ship. If he was this up in arms over one ship, Germany didn't know how he'd survived this long. Of course, he knew of the brash blond Nation and his growing list of victory treaties like black tally marks tattooed on his skin. By happenstance, it seemed, they had yet to meet.

There was a time when he might've been disappointed at all their missed opportunities. As America's loud, irate voice assaulted his brother the next room over, Germany was glad to be spared from "negotiations".

Prussia cackled, unaffected by America's cries of villainy and treachery. Really—it was just one ship. And he shouldn't have been helping Arthur anyway.

_"You've certainly grown a pair, America. First time we met you were kissing my boots."_

At this, Germany hesitated, corrected himself. That's right. They had met once before, hadn't they? Prussia had taken his favorite little brother along across the sea to lands unknown to them. America, glasses-less back then, shorter and brighter-eyed, had stood up to his Empire of an older brother, asked him to aid in his battle against Britain, to turn traitor against Arthur and help his rebel cause… Prussia had said no, and then he'd won.

America was still taller than him, even now. Just barely.

A door slammed, someone stalked away.

"Like I give a damn about a single ship." Prussia was there, arms crossed, amused. Proud, almost. "Kid takes things so personal."

Germany shrugged, listening as America continued to rant and rave as he was escorted out.

"He's a fire that burns bright, but brief." Prussia _tsked_, "Shame."

Germany thought much the same. It was just one ship. He should just stay out of affairs that weren't his own. It would save everyone a lot of heartache.

* * *

A/N: Two days before this day in history, the RMS Lusitania sank and 128 American lives were lost (among the British lives on the British ship). We were neutral in the war at the time and we were not supposed to be helping anyone so the fact that lives were lost was kind of our own damn fault. At the time, it was blown to huge proportions by propagandists who really wanted America to just officially declare war to aid Britain and France. "Remember Lafayette" was a huge selling point.

I promise, chapters will be longer moving forward.


	2. April 6th, 1917

**April 6th, 1917**

It had registered so briefly in the back of his mind. They'd already been fighting, deep in the trenches, for three years. So many men lost, so many piled up, defending lines with their lives that hadn't advanced in months.

America had just declared war. Finally.

Germany probably had somewhere more important to be. England probably wasn't even there anymore to return fire, having left for bigger battles. The air whistled and mortars exploded across No Man's Land. After three years, countless deaths, he didn't even flinch.

December was a long way off yet, but not too long ago, he had hope of some amicability when all this was over. That they could at least shake hands. None of them were supposed to be here.

_Christmas day on the battlefield, there isn't anything sadder._

Munitions screamed in the air and dirt caked his face. Abandoned letters home lay crumpled, crushed in the mud.

_Hey Germany!_

He wasn't sure half his men knew why they were fighting anymore. The English were the enemy, if they didn't kill them, they would be killed by them. No one remembered the tin can for a football, shared cigarettes and rations and botched carols.

_If this war goes on for another year, what do you think we'll be doing next Christmas?_

He'd heard they tried to recreate it, but he doubted at this point if England or Arthur were brave enough to slog across No Man's Land. He supposed he could have tried. If he got shot, he'd just wake up and head back to his side. Maybe this year, if they were still fighting eight months from now. They probably would be. And he probably would still be here, long after the men around him were dead and gone.

Oh, he did not want to lose this war. He knew what would happen if he lost this war, could see it in the faces of England and France. It wasn't his fault. It was all these secret alliances. This should have been all Serbia and Austria-Hungary alone. He should never have been involved. Not him, not England, not France. Not anyone. Not for three long years.

And now America.

Maybe, if nothing else, America's sheer numbers and strength of will, fresh blood, could just _end_ it. Two years ago, he might've cocked his gun, stared down the other blond with silent determination. It wasn't his fault. But if they weren't with him, they were against him. All of them. Now, though, now America came as a blessing, though he'd never speak those words to anyone. He'd have better end this godawful bloody mess. If a simple telegram was all it took to tip the scales, to get America off his isolated ass, then he should've done it months ago.

No matter who won, it would be a pyrrhic victory. Another mortar exploded beyond. Germany reloaded his gun.

* * *

**This day in history, the United States officially joined World War I. I say officially, because we all-but were in the war before this time through our military and economic support of Britain and other nations. And biased as it may be coming from an American textbook, without the US in this war, it would have dragged on for much longer. The telegram he references is the Zimmerman note, which the Americans "intercepted" from the "Germans" as an attempt to get Mexico to attack us. Some historians believe the British planted it in the hopes that it would successfully get us to declare war, which it did.**

**Lines were taken from the Christmas Truce episode. Disclaimer- I don't own Hetalia.**


	3. June 28th, 1919

**June 28th, 1919**

"It's not right. None of this."

Germany was tired. Paris was loud and everyone's hatred was palpable. He knew the fight had been lost the moment they all stepped into Versailles and saw the looks on Francis and Arthur's faces. Everything was all his fault. Even if it wasn't.

America, of course, came out of the war relatively unscathed. All his wounds had healed already. There were no battles on American soil. Germany still limped heavily with a cane, uncaring for his platitudes that meant nothing.

The sunny blond gazed out the window, rubbing circles in his glasses. "I tried to tell them, I swear I did. It's not your fault. But they don't get it."

Germany could make out his reflection in the glass. He'd heard of his president's ambitious plan. And had heard that not even his own Congress had supported him in it.

"I tried-"

"America."

Alfred turned, blinking owlishly.

"Why are you here?" It came out more bitter than he'd intended. As annoying as he was, at least America's concern was genuine. He cared, even if he himself could do nothing about it. So why didn't he just go home?

He licked his lips. Young and healthy, plump, rosy cheeks. Germany did not know who was older. America had held his title for longer, but whose body suffered more years? "Cause I'm gonna fix it. I'm the hero!" He laughed, a weak, two-note trill. "Got a lot of your people with me. It ain't right, Ludwig. I know it ain't."

He wasn't much for deception, Germany could tell. But still, he could do nothing about it. This injustice. How many more wars would America suffer before he, too, clung to bitter resentment like his ex-brothers?

"How can you fix it, America?"

He shrugged, finally sliding those glasses back on his nose askew. "I dunno. I dunno—but- but I'm gonna. You'll see."

Germany would like to see him try. He smiled, cheap and fragile, just enough to let America know his good intentions were received. "Go home, America."

"Alfred."

He stilled, blinking once. "I'm sorry?"

"I know you know my name. Call me Alfred." America gave an awkward, distant squeeze to his aching bicep. "And call, yeah? I can feel it, somethin' big's coming. And I think we're really gonna like it." He hesitated again, warm hand not leaving. "I know what it's like, you hear? Bein' alone. Don't let it get to ya." His free hand touched his midsection, pain flitting across his youthful face. "Call me."

America left, and he did not keep his promise, though honestly, Germany wasn't about to hold it against him.

* * *

**This day in history, the Treaty of Versailles ended World War I. American President Woodrow Wilson had a plan called the "Fourteen Points," which no one supported. This was also the attempted creation of the League of Nations, which also, no one supported, not even Congress. Don't get me wrong, Americans did not like the Germans after the war, but there wasn't nearly as much resentment as held by Great Britain and France and the rest of Europe. Wilson knew what would happen if we pinned it all on them, and he was right.**


	4. December 31st, 1928

**December 31st, 1928**

Germany didn't know how he ended up here. The day before, America had called him and asked him a simple question. _Hey, Lud, you ever see the New Years' Times Square Ball?_ At the time, Germany had frowned in confusion, because, no, he hadn't. A day before the new year, almost a decade since they last talked, what was America on about?

Then America had hung up and shown up at his front door an hour later, telling him they were leaving, pack a bag.

The next day, now, and Germany had whiplash from America's boisterous company. He still didn't know why he'd suddenly flown all the way to Europe and all the way back home just to fetch him. And after touring the—admittedly splendid—gussied up city for so long his feet ached, they had stopped at a 'hotdog' stand and America paid for everything. Germany asked him why.

"'Cause you needed a friend. And I was too late for Christmas."

He nearly dropped his meal at that. A friend? Sure, he wasn't living the high life America was for the past decade, but he had his brother, he had Feliciano. He had friends. They'd had a wonderful Christmas, despite everything.

"Is this pity, America?"

"Alfred."

"…Is this pity, Alfred?"

The sunny blond laughed, nose red like Rudolph. "Dude, loosen up. I just want to show ya a good time."

"Why?"

America never answered him, just led him around Manhattan as the day grew older and older. They eventually stood in Times Square with hundreds of other Americans and others alike in the freezing cold, waiting for a giant sphere to disappear behind a sign. _Wunderbar_.

He bounced on the balls of his feet, rubbing his hands in their mittens, bought them drinks from another vendor. This was no special day in history. Just New Years' of 1929.

"Alfred."

"Hm?"

"Why?"

He snorted, leaning back against a lamppost, shaking his head as if Germany knew nothing. "I said I was gonna fix it. Cause I'm the hero."

"But you haven't." He knew things were stirring, resentment smoldering deep and silent. Waiting. America could party it up all he wanted with his wide oceans to protect him from the rest of the world. Things were changing.

For his part, America did not falter in his cheer. "No, but," He took a swig from his beer, one Germany would have to discretely dump when he wasn't looking but Alfred seemed to enjoy. "Did you have a nice day?"

At this, Germany faltered. Did he? America certainly had a splendid time pointing out all his favorite landmarks and buildings Germany had seen before. And his laugh got annoying after several hours, his quick pace made him gripe like an old man. But did he have fun?

America grinned knowingly. "Don't think I don't know, Lud. I do. But we got this, yeah? 1929—what could go wrong?"

Germany felt a different chill in the air, as if fate laughed at America's expense.

"Ooh—ooh! Three more hours till midnight!"

Germany stood awkwardly by as America spent the majority of those hours chatting up his citizens, introducing his "German friend," and ignoring the fear and occasional hostility in their eyes. He drank too much and cared too little, arm slung around Ludwig's shoulders, and then,

"They didn't come this year, you know? Mattie did, but Artie… I know somethin's wrong, Lud. I do. I really do." Two minutes to midnight. "I know somethin's comin'. But—can't I just hang onto this for a little longer? Lemme… lemme party jus' a little longer?"

Taken aback, Germany didn't know what to say. Was America aware of the words spilling from his mouth? Was this all part of some elaborate scheme to get something from him? He knew he was capable, but this didn't seem so ingenuine.

"I like you, Lud. I really do."

The city began to chant. _Ten… nine… eight…_ And Alfred shouted with them, arms stretched high above his head, crooning toward the sky, daring the inevitability of the new year. He was drunk on freedom and high on the euphoria of millions of his people. _Six…five…four…three… two…_

New York City erupted in jubilant hysteria, couples and strangers alike colliding, drinks flying, confetti. America, even now, did not abandon him. He'd likely not remember what he did in the morning, but Germany would. And he would for the next long, dreadful decade. But for now, he had this.

"Happy New Year!"

* * *

**This day in history… was just New Years of 1929. I picked it because ten months from now, the Stock Market will crash and the world will enter the Great Depression and this will be the last time for a long time anyone gets to party like they did in 1928. Himaruya dedicated a few panels to Post-WWI Germany, with him tasked with making Cuckoo clocks as reparations as the heads of Arthur and Frances yapped at him. According to Wikipedia, the Ball Drop was inaugurated in 1907.**

***edited on my phone so if there's errors I'm sorry guys.**


	5. December 26th, 1776

**December 26th, 1776**

He remembers staring down the nose of a rifle, blade of a bayonet glinting in the late-night moonlight. Some nameless rebel soldier barely older than he was, arms shaking, blue eyes hard. He wasn't to move a muscle.

America, young, upstart America, had managed to sneak up on their camp, managed to launch a surprise attack, managed to pin his Empire of a brother, unarmed, unaware.

Prussia just cackled. He'd wondered what the humans thought.

America's shoulders were taut, draped in ratty blue, white, and red, holes at the seams, blond hair flat and dark, strange little cowlick defiant and proud. Blue eyes like his soldier's glaring down the barrel.

_Don't hesitate next time_, Prussia had advised, just a little bit of pride in his voice.

_Someday you'll regret being on the wrong side of history_, America had decreed. At the time, Germany might've laughed. Oh, this was going to be a long, long war, and even if France and Spain helped him, he would not win.

America shot his brother in the face. Had glanced at him with quiet fury. It made him wonder if this was his first time ever shooting a fellow Nation in cold blood. It wouldn't be his last.

He'd spared Ludwig at the time, briefly keeping him prisoner until he realized there were more important matters, and Prussia would not rest until he was free. It was snowing beneath the noon sun.

"Which one are you?" America asked, never letting go of his rifle.

"Ludwig."

A quirk of chapped lips. A sigh. "I'm gonna win, Ludwig."

"Then what?"

America jolted at that, surprised by the question. "What?"

Ludwig shrugged, numb from the cold. "Then what? Once you win."

He was quiet for a while, "Haven't thought that far ahead, yet, honestly. Got some ideas, you know?" A beat. Soldiers called out to each other in the distance, collecting their wounded. "Sorry for last night."

"You weren't sorry last night."

"Ain't sorry for Prussia. Not apologizing to him." America faltered, sliding down against the wall, rifle in his lap. "I know I'm gonna have to shoot my—England. So, I'm sorry you had to see that."

"Apology accepted, America."

It was almost a hundred and fifty years before they'd see each other again.

* * *

**This day in history was the Battle of Trenton (New Jersey). During the Revolutionary War, Great Britain hired German mercenaries, the Hessians, to fight on their side against the Americans. They were not popular on either side for various reasons. The day has been spun into quite a bit of myth over the years, i.e. School House Rock's "Shot Heard 'Round the World", but it was a successful ambush nonetheless. A large number of Hessians never went home after the war, which contributed to the large German population we have. Creative freedom here, making the Hessians Prussia. Technically, it wouldn't have been, but he was for all intents and purposes "Germany" at the time as "Germany" did not exist. Ludwig would have been just a state, even if you subscribe to him as amnesiac HRE.**


	6. June 6th, 1944

**June 6th, 1944**

Germany wasn't there. Not at America's beach, at least. Here, he faced his brother, America likely bleeding out in the surf some few hundred meters south or north, he couldn't tell, didn't care. And Canada was every bit the demon his surviving troops claimed he was. Germany had been at his mercy for months now.

But America, again, was fashionably late to the world stage, and even with two years of campaigns against each other, they still had yet to see each other. Germany was battling Russia, or America was out in the Pacific entangled with Japan. Or they were both in Africa, just barely missing each other.

There were _so many_ Nations in this war.

Germany knew in this battle they would miss each other again. America would be on the front lines, storming the beach like a deranged madman. He might not have even made it to the sand. But he would wake up eventually, if someone didn't let him keep drowning in bloody waters, and they would face each other… eventually.

For now—France had escaped months ago to rejoin his family, and he was supposed to be here, even if his people could not be. It was the symbolism of it. France was not free, and if Germany found him he would drag him back kicking and screaming to Berlin. But France could certainly try.

So, where was he?

Men screamed orders at each other in their pillbox. His ears rang with the deep, booming staccato of their main gun. He could feel it, a change in the wind. Despite all their advantages, even if America himself was not on this particular beach, his people were _everywhere_. Dropping in from planes, swarming that beach, hundreds of them, waiting offshore on their ships.

Oh, there's France, grenade pins between his teeth, helmet askew, cobalt blue eyes dark and savage—was that a flamethrower?

_"Allemagne!"_

Well. It seemed France had won this round.

For all the strength of men and weapons America's debut in this war had brought, Germany was not done yet. His people were not done yet. They couldn't be. They couldn't lose, _again_. Couldn't be the fault of the world,_ again_. They would win simply because they could not fathom failure a second time. He had invested too much, lost too many, to give up now. This time, America would finally taste defeat. Who would be on the wrong side of history now?

Oh, if only Alfred had chosen his side. What a beautiful sight that would be. But he hadn't, so it wasn't. And America was now in Europe- in Africa, in Asia. They would face each other soon, just not today. Germany had a favor to repay.

So they'd take Normandy. Fine. So be it. Germany was not done yet.

* * *

**This day in history, Operation Overlord hit the sands of Normandy. "D-Day" is also just because it happened to be the fourth day they decided to do this after bad weather delayed A-Day, B-Day, and C-Day. If you've ever seen "Saving Private Ryan" you know. Naval support was supposed to bomb the beach beforehand and eliminate a lot of the opposition, but due to the weather, when they landed, it was a slaughterhouse they really only overcame because of sheer numbers. I have no idea if France could have or would have been there, but I liked the idea that he had the opportunity to re-invade his own country to liberate it.**


	7. December 16th, 1944

**December 16th, 1944**

It was raining today. Bitterly cold. It reminded him of a much different war, under much different circumstances. And it had been much easier than anticipated to catch him by surprise. Finally, after three years, Alfred and Ludwig, Germany and America, were face to face.

And he can thank this all to bad weather and American audacity.

He found Alfred among many of his men in bits and pieces around him, peppered with holes as he was himself on this battered Belgian battlefield. Awake, but the sudden loss of hundreds of men, the symbolic loss of their position, had taken its toll.

Six months ago, Germany had been antsy with anticipation, finally, really facing America on the European front. He'd imagined where it'd be, what they'd be fighting over, how many on each side, how they moved, the losses they'd suffered. In his mind, America valiantly fought until he was the last man standing among the rubble, and even then, surrounded, he'd still say,_ I accept your surrender_.

And Germany would take his victory and repay him for what he did so many decades ago. He couldn't take him prisoner, that was against their 'etiquette' they'd all never actually agreed to centuries prior. It wasn't a large enough campaign, wasn't heavy enough losses. Besides, he had other matters, and Alfred as a prisoner meant Alfred in the Camps. Six months ago, part of him would have enjoyed that.

Now…

"Hey Lud…" America coughed up red, hands shaking, pressing on his wounds. His brothers were supposed to be here, too. If England came up to avenge his ex-charge, now… Germany just might let him. They weren't facing each other Nation to Nation today. Germany had several guns, excessive ammunition, a handful of grenades and a couple knives. Not for him, no, for if his men were unlucky enough to have lost theirs isolated from their comrades. Alfred was just a kid. How long had it been since Germany's likeness began to age past his? America, for all his imperial might, for all his losses in this war and the previous, was still young, blue eyes staring down the muzzle of his pistol through crackled glasses, unafraid.

Six months ago, Germany would've shot him dead out of spite. This is what your arrogance gets, America. Now… he knew. The hour was late, and despite all their collective ingenuity, Germany just did not have the resources, the manpower, to sustain this fight any longer against so many enemies. If they could just win Antwerp, thin their forces as much as his own, they might still stand a chance, might still crawl out of this alive. The Third Reich was not done yet.

Alfred coughed again. Surprise attack. Bad weather. American audacity.

Germany hauled him up, dragging him away with arms hooked under his to a bombed-out old building, it might've been a café, the remnants of a kitchen and cozy lounge buried beneath the rubble. He did not protest, though Germany surmised this was less out of choice and more out of inability to speak.

England would find him eventually, or Canada, but this Germany wanted for himself.

"Hey… you gos'some m-morphine?"

He did, in fact. Germany eyed the blue and grey insignia on his arm, giving him enough doses to kill a man. America just sighed, relaxing. "Donkey."

Ludwig started, almost laughing. _Danke_, Alfred. _Danke_. He really should just shoot him and be on his way. This wasn't a victory, he could tell that much. Despite initial losses, there was an Allied resurgence on the early horizon. He knew if he lost here, he lost the war. Six months ago, he would have been livid. Now…

"America."

"…Yeah?"

"I'm going to lose."

Alfred slurred a laugh, drunk on sedatives. "Pessimist, Lud. Gon' be fine."

Sitting in this Belgian café, America bled out on the floor, hidden by a turned-over table, Germany incarnate looming over him… and he was sparing encouragement. For a long while, he was quiet, and Germany thought he was asleep or dead.

"Feels so weird…"

He chanced a glance up, and America was holding one of the flattened bullets from his wounds between shaking fingers. Resurgence indeed. It dropped to the floor with a bounce. More silence, or as much silence as there could be with the battle raging around them.

America started humming, voice cracked and broken by lethargy and pain. Germany vaguely knew the tune, but he couldn't place it. Then he found his words.

"The men'll cheer and the boys'll shout, the ladies—they will all turn out. And we'll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home." He nodded to the beat, the most movement he could likely muster, weakly snapping his fingers, whistling in the break between lyrics.

Germany stared on as America sang his song of the young, forlorn soldier. Undeterred by bouts of coughing or dust from the ceiling as mortars exploded nearby. "…let love and friendship on that day—hurrah, hurrah! Their choicest pleasures then display—hurrah, hurrah! And let each one perform some part, to fill with joy the warrior's heart… and we'll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home."

Whether that was the end of the song or not, America could not continue. Germany did not help him.

"Who's Johnny?"

America grinned, teeth red, and touched a hand to that blue and grey patch on his arm. Ah. Well, he couldn't let him lie there anymore, could he? Blood streaked the ground as he helped Alfred sit up beside him amidst hisses and groans of pain.

"I got bourbon… imma pocket. You like bourbon?"

"_Nein_."

"Want some anyway?"

"…_Ja_."

So they drank, Germany helping him with little sips so he didn't spill it all over himself. "When you gonna shoot, Lud?"

It really did make him gag. But Alfred liked it. He had every intention of shooting him, of repaying him for that cold December much like this one, waking up to a bayonet in his face. His brother's cackle. Don't hesitate next time. He was going to, but then, Alfred didn't shoot him. So, there was that.

With shaking hands, America took care to clean his glasses, cracks fading. He'd spit on the lenses, smear the blood and grime with an equally bloody and grimy shirt, and eventually gave up. He looked just like he had all those decades ago before he had them. "If that ain't some symbolic shit… I dunno what is." The glasses rested on his lap, red indentations on his nose.

Germany really had to go. He had a battle to wage, and it would not bode well for either of them to be caught here by either side, sharing whisky, guns holstered. Alfred dropped his head on his shoulder, tired. "You totally gotta yodel for me someday."

At this, Ludwig found himself chuckling. The feeling was foreign now, but pleasant. "Do I?"

"Mhm. Yeah."

A church tower collapsed out the window. More dust rained from the ceiling.

"Hey Lud."

"_Ja_?"

He shifted, getting more comfortable on his makeshift pillow. Oh, England would scream. "Happy new year…"

Oh. So he did remember.

"Gotta be here for Christmas, m'kay?"

Ludwig's lip split with a soft smile. "I think we'll be a bit busy, Alfred."

"Imma see you anyway. Gonna… gonna make a truce part-_deux_."

He wasn't even there for the first one. England was. And England was going to shoot him if he saw his brother sleeping on him, swayed by the ways of perverted science or some_ scheisse._ "…I'd like that."

"S'gonna be okay, Lud. Told ya… I'm the hero." America did not speak again.

Germany sat for a long while, ignoring his duties, his loyalties. He wondered then if the old adage could still hold true. America was his periphery. He was only in this war because Japan dragged him into it, as much as he cried brotherhood with Britain and France and Freedom. He wasn't supposed to be here, none of them were. But here they were, drinking whisky with guns holstered. Could it be true, then, that the enemy of his enemy was his friend?

Germany began to hum, a tune he knew well from captured Allies, and enemy radio waves. "…He was the top man at his craft, but then his number came up and he was gone with the draft. He's in the army now, a-blowin' reveille. He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B."

* * *

**This day in history, the Battle of the Bulge began in Antwerp, Belgium, the last huge campaign for the Axis in Europe. Due to poor weather (again) and… yeah, Allied overconfidence, the Germans launched a surprise attack. There were more American lives lost here than at D-Day. Eventually in the month the "battle" persisted, Germany lost so many numbers and munitions that this was basically the end for them. No such Christmas truce occurred after 1914, though some tried.**

**Songs:**

**"When Johnny Comes Marching Home," also known more popularly as "Ants go marching," is an American civil war song. I named the Confederacy after him. Alfred's patch is from the 29th Infantry Division, a yin-yang of confederate grey and northern blue for the mixed heritages that comprised it.**

**"Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy," from 1941.**


	8. June 26th, 1948

**June 26th, 1948**

There were bombers overhead. Or, at least, they sounded like bombers. All planes still sounded like bombers. Three years since his defeat, and Germany was very, very alone. His brother, now 'East Germany' was nowhere to be found. A spoil of war deep behind Russian borders. Austria and Hungary did not talk to him. Italy had his own mess to clean up. Ironically, it was the former Allies who kept up communication. Some sense of justice, bolstered by America, to save him from himself or something of the like.

Well, where were they now?

He didn't leave his home much in West Berlin. There was nowhere to go. This morning, Russia had gleefully announced they were _officially_ being cut off from the rest of his country. He was quite done with letting this little rabble of Blue persist among the blood iron curtain.

So, Germany supposed, he deserved it.

But his people did not.

So, the planes came. He did not care to look up out the windows, he would see nothing new. Eventually England or France would stroll in under pretenses of friendship, belied by resentment, rightful vengeance, and give him new orders on how to pick up the pieces of his short-lived empire. America, not as frequent. But then he was an ocean away. Germany couldn't blame him.

"Luddy!" The front door burst open with the sharp crack of the door frame. Ludwig fell out of his chair.

America was here, pilot's gear on his head, chest heaving beneath his bomber jacket. "Dude—you gotta come see this."

More bad news? America dragged him out of his house, past the ruins of a fallen nation. Planes still flew in wide arcs overhead. American planes. Alfred gave away nothing, hand warm in his, leading him along to the airport. Germany did not care for whatever trifles Alfred had to show him. He could not care for more bad news. More sanctions. More laws.

"I brought you some vittles!"

Germany stared. A company of pilots and crewmen unloaded pallets on the cracked tarmac. An entire cargo bay's worth. Food. Water. Blankets. They made quick work of their haul, engines never quieting as the goods were counted and dollied away. And as it took off, another was right behind it. An air bridge of planes in the sky.

"What… what is this?"

America clapped him on the back. "Told ya- I brought you some vittles!" He winked. "That commie bastard wants to kick us out? Well no sir-ee! I got my boss and England and France and we're all gonna pitch in."

Germany couldn't fathom it. How many planes? How much cargo? The logistics of it all! And… and… "Why?"

A warm hand squeezed his shoulder. "Cause I'm the hero!"

For hours, Ludwig helped Alfred unload and unpack. Everything still had to be rationed, nothing could be taken for granted, but his people's faces, when they realized what was happening… Germany had not smiled like this in two decades. Not since New York.

Later, as planes were _still_ landing and would still land for as long as they were able, they'd been sent away to rest. America was hard-pressed to comply, but he'd been on his feet lifting weight ten times his own for nine hours. He was fine, but no one would believe them.

Alfred snuck him chocolate. He called them M&Ms. They were strange, but they tasted good.

"Do you like your vittles?"

"_Ja_." His fingers were stained red and blue from the hard candy coating.

"Ludwig."

"_Ja?_"

Alfred tuned his radio, popped a mouthful of chocolate, and tugged him into a dance. That catchy French song was on the air tonight, a bit hazy, cutting in and out. Alfred wasn't taller than him, he realized. He just carried himself higher.

"_Quand il me prend dans ses bras… Il me parle tout bas. Je vois la vie en rose…_" And for an American, his French was rather beautiful. They didn't dance so much as sway beneath dull moonlight. "_Il me dit des mots d'amour… Des mots de tous les jours. Et ça me fait quelque chose._"

Ludwig wasn't sure if this was supposed to be romantic or not. They weren't humans. They had history, and this could be romantic just as easily as it could be America comforting West Germany while dancing to Edith Piaf and eating M&Ms. It was easier to think like that.

But later Alfred whispered dreams of getting candy to the German children, of dropping chocolate like sugary paratroopers from the sky. Ludwig thought he was mad.

Alfred kept his touches light and let Ludwig lead, singing along with Miss Piaf. His planes brought hope to a distraught people, but he knew this was far from the end of it. This was but a bright break in a torrential tempest that would not end.

He knew little of what struggles America currently faced, if any, but here he was. Dancing to Edith Piaf… and eating M&Ms. "_Et dès que je t'aperçois… Alors je sens dans moi. Mon cœur qui bat…_"

The song began to fade. "It's gonna be okay, Lud."

_La la, la la, la la…._

* * *

**This day in history, the Berlin Airlift began, or the "Luftbrücke" began, the air bridge. With the entire city cut off from the rest of the Allied territory deep inside Soviet territory, Russia wanted all of Berlin under their control and began the Berlin Blockade. It… failed. Spectacularly. "We shall stay" President Truman had said, and Operation "Vittles" began. It's estimated that 300,000 planes landed or took off every 30 seconds for a year from all three Allied divisions of the West Germany. Operation "Little Vittles" was the candy drop. M&Ms were invented in 1941.**

**"La vie en rose," by Edith Piaf, from 1947**


	9. August 13th, 1961

**August 13st, 1961**

There was a wall in the middle of the city this morning. Russia had finally gotten his way. The air still smelled like fresh concrete, poured and erected in the dead of night. People said little, keeping their distance from the guards with the guns. Muted silence. There was a wall in the middle of the city this morning, and his brother was on the other side.

Two walls, actually. A fresh no man's land in between. Sentry towers and bright searchlights. More guards with more guns. If this was the sight from West Berlin, Ludwig did not want to know the sight from the East.

He was alone, and even though things were looking better, his economy was growing stronger, there was still a wall in the middle of the city. America's planes hadn't returned in ten years, and neither had he. He had his own silent war to wage with the bitter ice and snow. Germany was but one small stage in this fight. He'd heard they were trying to reach the moon.

If Prussia wrote him letters, he never received them. If he was even alive and not dying perpetually at Russia's mercy, he did not know. Poland was over there, behind the wall. Poland, Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia… Ukraine and Belarus and Romania and Hungary. West Germany was not. He'd gotten to eat M&Ms and dance to Edith Piaf.

He remembered the way Poland had looked at him that day in 1939. He'd known this was coming, and said nothing. On his ridiculous pony that stood no chance in that war, Poland stared him down, a yellow star stitched to his uniform. He heard there were plans to rebuild Krakow, brick by brick, exactly how it used to be.

He remembered Romania's betrayal, at the eleventh hour, in a desperate attempt to be spared from the Nazis and Soviets alike. It probably ended the war six months sooner, in retrospect. It did not spare Romania.

It was cold here, in West Germany, but it was colder in Siberia. There was a wall in the middle of the city this morning, and Ludwig was the only one not on the other side.

* * *

**This day in history, overnight, the Soviets built the Berlin Wall. I've been to Berlin. There's sections of the wall that are just rebar, and you can pass straight between the bars. I did, and I got serious chills. There are also huge stretches that are covered in murals, and it's hauntingly beautiful. It's said that during the airlift, West Germans said of their situation "It's cold in Berlin, but colder in Siberia."**


	10. June 26th, 1963

**June 26th, 1963**

_Ich ben ein Berliner!_ America's boss had declared as he commanded the stage in West Berlin.

Now, America whispered it to him in a stolen moment away from the crowds of proud, hurting, determined Germans. Fifteen years to the day, and he again brought hope, this time with words Ludwig knew would be remembered a hundred years later. As with his French, Alfred's German was flawless. He'd told him once he had no national language, and he never thought it was going to change.

_Two thousand years ago the proudest boast was "civis Romanus sum". Today, in the word of freedom, the proudest boast is "Ich bin ein Berliner"._

Oh, the things Arthur would say if he saw them now. Ludwig would have liked to say he'd suavely anticipated Alfred's advances and met him toe to toe. He had not, and Alfred still tasted like cheap beer and M&Ms.

_Lass' sie nach Berlin kommen. Let them come to Berlin._

For all his posturing, for all his cries of freedom and ridiculous laugh, Alfred today was no louder than a whisper. He was trying, he'd told him. Ludwig knew he was tired, pulled in every direction. War in Korea and now Vietnam, his first loss in history. Russia was relentless, and he knew Alfred felt like he often stood alone. Ludwig knew the feeling. But still, he was here, he was trying. They were gonna get to the moon.

_I know of no town, no city, that has been besieged for 18 years that still lives with the vitality and the force, and the hope and the determination of the city of West Berlin._

He'd cleaned up since Alfred had been here last. He had new dogs, flowers planted in the spring. And had plans to fulfill a promise to take him to Oktoberfest one of these years. Alfred cared not for the tour of his house, just wanted him to know that he was trying, he really was. Because he was the hero.

Ludwig didn't expect to see him for a long time after he left with his president. He never rested, fresh wounds constantly blooming on his skin from his need to be the hero. His ridiculous promise to France after he bailed on his ex-colony. There hadn't been a major battle with Vietnam yet, but they both knew it was coming. Maybe in a few months, maybe a few years. Alfred would be there, boots on the ground with his men, and Ludwig would still be in his house in West Berlin.

Alfred refused to let him get any words in edgewise, refused to hear any gratitude, until the job was done and the wall was down. Ludwig wanted to tell him to pick his battles. 200 years and he hadn't lost a single war until now, that should have been a wake-up call. He was in Cuba and Vietnam and Germany and still had messes in Japan and Korea. Alfred just puffed his chest, reminded him who was older, and said he was picking his battles, even if America was not.

Ludwig stopped talking at that point, hoping he wasn't reading too much into those words, why he was here, as Alfred, not America.

_Freedom is indivisible, and when one man is enslaved, all are not free. When all are free, then we can look forward to that day when this city will be joined as one and this country and this great Continent of Europe in a peaceful and hopeful globe._

This was the first time Alfred ever stayed the night. They both said it was because he couldn't leave without his boss, but he had a hotel room all to himself, and still he was here. He'd told him he liked when his hair wasn't slicked back and refused to stop running callused fingers through it. Ludwig had told him he liked Alfred marginally more without his glasses, especially when they didn't get in the way and dig into his face. To this, Alfred had laughed, head thrown back. They were gonna get to the moon.

_All free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin, and, therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words "Ich bin ein Berliner"._

* * *

**This day in history, President John F. Kennedy (where I think the F in 'Alfred F. Jones' comes from) made the "Ich bin ein Berliner" speech in Germany. It's regarded as one of the most famous Cold War speeches and best performance he gave in his short career as president before he was assassinated five months later in Texas, basically saying to the Soviets that America and the Western world stand with Germany, and that if they want this conflict (the Cold War) to end, then they need to come to Berlin so they can fix their broken country and see the strength of the German people.**

**The first major American-Vietnamese battle was at the Ia Drang Valley in 1965. The film _We Were Soldiers_ is a fantastic dramatization of it and I recommend it for history buffs.**

**Sorry, no lemon, use your wonderful imaginations. You're welcome to contribute one ;)**


	11. June 12th, 1987

**June 12th, 1987**

There were few times when Ludwig had hope that America would keep his promise to fix everything, but more often than not in the years in between visits, he'd learned to just get used to things. To settle. The wall was there and it was not leaving any time soon. Gilbert was still on the other side, he hasn't seen him since 1945. He'll never get used to that, but now he's stopped looking at the guards with the guns.

They used to be his people, they should be his people. They spoke the same language, some of them were born his, some of them never knew a whole Germany, born into this schism of hatred.

Actually, Ludwig corrected himself, he did see Alfred before now, in Los Angeles. The Olympics, three years ago. He was different, and Ludwig realized why—he was around the others. Arthur, Francis, Matthew. Ivan. So, that's how it was. America had been beaming with pride—the Olympics! On his soil! Ludwig had stood in a distant third on their own special podium. Alfred, of course, took first. Romania of all people smugly on his left in second, refusing to be forgotten behind the curtain.

And that was that. Whatever inhibitions he had when his young president had been here were locked away. He had a more important agenda—one that meant usurping Ivan's opening ceremony with grandeur and showmanship in ritzy American fashion. And usurp he did indeed.

It wasn't all lost. Alfred hadn't gone out of his way to ignore him, but he did have his priorities. So, when the truly exhausted, youthful blond made an unexpected appearance in his home three years later, Ludwig was surprised. He'd known they'd tried to change the president's plans to include West Germany, but it was on such short notice, to actually have their diplomats here, working themselves to the bone on some big speech… Ludwig did his best to be a generous host. He'd been to Berlin in the twenty-four year gap, but hadn't _seen_ him. Alfred hovered about his growing roster of bosses and diplomats, never straying from those rooms allocated to them. Not like before. He had work to do.

At one point, he'd overheard a dejected Alfred muttering scrapped lines to himself. As if he were to be the one standing before the German people, delivering the speech. _Herr Gorbachev, machen Sie dieses Tor auf._

Ludwig had M&Ms in his pocket, and throughout the days of indecision, they'd melted into quite a rainbow of a mess. Maybe Alfred would still like them. At the end of another arduous session, all Ludwig managed to say to him was:

"I appreciate your attempts to include my people, Alfred, but an American president should address the world in English."

So here they were, on the side of the stage, out of the limelight. Germany had not heard the President's final draft yet. Alfred bounced on his toes, but not in excitement this time. He worried his glasses and fidgeted constantly, muttering to himself as if Mr. Reagan would forget his lines. He did not. He was an actor, after all.

_For I join you, as I join your fellow countrymen in the West, in this firm, this unalterable belief: Es gibt nur ein Berlin._

And Ludwig thought it echoed much of Mr. Kennedy's prose almost thirty years prior. Maybe, this time, it would do something. Though, he will admit, Mr. Kennedy's accent was better.

_After these four decades, then, there stands before the entire world one great and inescapable conclusion: Freedom leads to prosperity. Freedom replaces the ancient hatreds among the nations with comity and peace. Freedom is the victor._

Ludwig could picture Alfred standing atop that old wooden desk in his beloved Oval Office, a finger pointed toward his leaders and his people like that war poster he loves so much, shouting these words so that he wills them to be true.

It was 1987, Ludwig was used to the wall. The rest of the world was used to the wall. There were children born who never knew a Germany _without _the wall.

_General Secretary Gorbachev, if you seek peace, if you seek prosperity for the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe, if you seek liberalization: Come here to this gate! Mr. Gorbachev, open this gate! Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!_

At this, Alfred reached back, squeezed his hand, spared him a glance through those ever-present wire-rimmed glasses. _It's gonna be okay, Lud_.

He'd heard them going back and forth, in English, in German, how to phrase it and how to not, if they were even going to include it. But to hear it from the microphones, before the Brandenburg Gate, among millions of his people, it was…

_Ich bin ein Berliner_, Alfred had whispered. He was going to fix this. If he accomplished nothing else. America was going to end this war.

They could host the Olympics someday? On both sides of the wall? It was such a small thing, but he imagined it anyway, standing at the podium with Gilbert at his side.

_Mr. Gorbachev_…

It was hope.

* * *

**This day in history, President Ronald Reagan gave his "Tear down the wall" speech before the Brandenburg gate, and much of it did echo Kennedy's "Ich bin ein Berliner." There was a ton of debate on how to execute that line among his staff, and apparently his German wasn't the best, but people were so invested in and empowered his words, they didn't care. Mikhail Gorbachev was the first in a long line of Soviet leaders to really care about making peace with the US, and with him Reagan's request was made possible.**


	12. November 9th, 1989

**November 9th, 1989**

_"Tor auf!"_

Ludwig wielded a sledgehammer. Only today was the war really over.

_"Tor auf!"_

It was midnight, and the air was filled with voices, banging hammers, chisels, pickaxes. People weren't waiting. They held each other up and were lifted over the other side. Germany hacked away, concrete crumbling beneath his fingers. Panels listed and waned, slathered with forty years of graffiti.

Cranes swung their metal arms, clawing at fragments. _Boom. Boom. Boom._ Dust caught in his eyes, sweat dripped down his skin. Germany didn't care. People gave him a wide berth, cheering him on. No one knew what he was, it didn't matter. _Boom. Boom. Boom._

An orchestra of hammers and rubble.

Bodies flooded through like a rushing river through a broken dam. Families reunited. Children with parents they'd never met. Brothers, sisters, grandparents.

There was a wall in the middle of the city, and come morning, it fell.

Ludwig wasn't expecting to see Gilbert. He knew Prussia, what remained of it, should have still been in Moscow. Two million souls brimming with elation was enough.

Chunks of the wall were being passed around. Souvenirs.

_"Tor Auf!"_

His muscles ached and his eyes burned. It was cold in Berlin, but colder in Siberia. The decay of East Berlin, pockmarked buildings, potholed streets, burned out cars, a living, breathing snapshot of 1945. As if it were bottled up and stowed in some forgotten cellar, until the bottle was broken and its stench unleashed.

Oh, his beautiful city.

He would fix it.

The sun rose, and still people streamed through, crying names and waving hands, jumping up and down, children on their shoulders. People sang and people danced, standing room only. Still no Gilbert.

In a moment of terror, Ludwig thought he wouldn't ever come. Prussia was dissolved, and the division of the Germanys was no more. Did that mean… did that mean his brother was gone? Had he not even gotten to say goodbye?

Few crossed over to the East, Ludwig was one of them.

"Gilbert!"

He hadn't even been there the day Russia took him away. He was with the rest of the Allies, hearing his sentence. Would Alfred know? He had spies, he knew Russia better than anyone. Has Gilbert been gone all this time, and Alfred just never told him?

"Gilbert!"

His breath fogged in the early dawn. Amidst the grey, a bright yellow puffball perched on a bench.

Ludwig dropped his hammer, feet dragging. He knew that bird. With a sad little chirp, it recognized him, snuggled in his palms. Was this it?

"_Bruder?_"

Ludwig spun so fast he almost slipped on the slushy ground. There stood a frail, sickly man, unkempt white hair and dull red eyes. A pickaxe hefted on his shoulder. Hollowed cheeks and cracked lips, wearing a uniform that was not his, leaning on rebar for a cane.

The chick left his hands, securing his place atop a nest of bone white locks. Ludwig couldn't remember the last time he cried. Gilbert told him crying was for girls.

Ludwig didn't care.

He smelled like cigarettes and vodka and felt like a skeleton. His hair was greasy and he might've shrunk. His nose was red from the cold and his voice scratchier than ever. But he was Gilbert, all the same.

"You weren't at the Wall," Ludwig muttered into his shoulder, throat tight and eyes burning.

"Guess I missed the party, heh?" Gilbert could barely hug him back, muscles straining, shaking through the many layers between them.

Ludwig pulled back, wondering. This was a soviet uniform, ill-fitting and much too low a rank. "Where did you get this?"

Gilbert grinned, smug. "Moscow."

"You ran from Moscow?"

"_Keeseeseesee!"_ It ended with a cough. He flew, then had to land early because he ran out of gas. Then stole a car, and made it across Poland. Then found a bike, and here he was. "Because I'm awesome."

Gilbert ruffled his hair. Ludwig lifted him off his feet, not ready to let him go. "I missed you."

"You didn't turn my room into some shitty office, did you?"

"Of course not."

"I want to go home, Lud."

They could have found another car, something to get Gilbert off his feet, but he was bound and determined to cross the Wall with his own two legs. With an arm slung across his shoulders, East and West climbed the rubble together.

There was a wall in the middle of the city, and come morning, it was no more.

* * *

**This day in history, the Berlin Wall fell. At midnight, the people of East Berlin were finally allowed to cross to the other side, and according to a source I found, the celebration was "the greatest street party in the history of the world." There's not much more to say here, go find some YouTube videos, they'll do more justice than I can in just a little author's note. This was inspired by the wonderful fan art for this moment all across the fandom. Spoiler alert for "Lonely" next chapter.**


	13. December 26th, 1991

**December 26th, 1991**

There was an election in the USSR today. It was an election to decide the fate of the union. For the rest of the planet, the result was a gift they'd never thought they'd live to see. A belated Christmas present for the rest of the world. For Ludwig, it was Ivan's final _fuck you_.

Gilbert was restless most of that day. He refused to sit still and made many an odd request of his brother. Do this with him, do that with him, make this meal, show him that movie, take him to this part of the city. Ludwig thought it was weird that he wanted to start Star Wars at the third movie, but Gilbert sat and watched the fall of the Empire with a look somewhere between awe and bitterness for the entire run time.

Ludwig, to his everlasting guilt, didn't realize why until it was too late. What did the fate of the USSR have to do with the state of Germany? Let it crumble, he kept saying, and Gilbert echoed him every time.

He played with the dogs and made a new birdhouse for Gilbird. Drank his weight in beer and did all his chores, up at midnight to get everything done. For what, Ludwig hadn't known, but he'd gotten his obsession with order and cleanliness from his brother, and even forty years in Russia hadn't stripped that from him. He paraded around in his white and black eagle, played music on the flute Old Fritz left for him.

"Your bosses ever leave you anything, Lud?"

Just a bloody bunker.

"I'm gonna fix that. And it'll be awesome."

And at the end of the day, all Gilbert wanted was to sit outside in their tiny little yard in the heart of the reunified city and breathe in the free air. They sat back to back, white mingling with blond. A clinking sound—Gilbert kept thumbing at his iron cross, the only thing Ivan hadn't destroyed when he confiscated everything.

Ludwig sighed, eyes closed. Today had been a good day. Gilbert was warm against his back.

"Hey, West?"

"Hm?"

"You're awesome."

It wasn't gradual, or perhaps it was. The warmth of his brother's body, strength of his muscles, the empire he used to be, faded away. Ludwig fell back into the grass, Gilbert's support gone. There were no stars out tonight.

Gilbird's new house was empty, Fritz's flute abandoned on the windowsill.

Something dug into his back, and Ludwig arched to pull it free. A black cross on a metal chain, worn by a weary hand. Still warm. He slipped it around his neck, tucked it beneath his shirt. Berlin carried on into the night, none the wiser.

* * *

Months later, he was in New York. A United Nations meeting of all things. And of all the times he'd been at these meetings for various reasons since his defeat in 1945, this time it was different. Then, he knew Gilbert was on the other side. Then he knew that even if he was physically alone under the scrutiny of so many, Gilbert was giving him moral support behind enemy lines.

Ludwig felt the cross beneath his tie, a heavy hardness no one would notice. During the meeting, he dutifully paid attention, took detailed, orderly notes, which saved his ass an hour later when he stood at the steps of the meeting hall, recalling nothing.

Things were getting better, his economy was growing exponentially. He could feel it in his bones, in his blood, he was like the phoenix Feliks loved so much, born again from the ashes. Stronger. But still people kept their distance. Their eyes darkened when he spoke. It wasn't like he was the only guilty party at this meeting. Japan, for one, was still not quite on speaking terms with China, at least outside the public sphere.

For a while, Ludwig thought no one even realized Prussia had passed. No one really cared about him, and he was sure most thought he went and died on Russian soil.

Austria surprised him. It was muttered in passing, so much so that Ludwig thought he was talking only to himself. Thinking out loud. _Suum Cuique_, he'd said, given a small, half-lidded nod, and marched on.

Russia pretended he knew nothing. Germany didn't rise to the bait.

"Texas."

Alfred's voice behind him, after seeing off most everyone else to their various hotels, made him jump.

"What?"

Alfred tapped his glasses, the same ones from decades prior. "Texas left these for me. Samuel H. Jones." A quirk. "Good kid."

At first, Ludwig didn't understand. Didn't see the connection. America had been nothing but professional all day. Then bright blue eyes nodded to his chest. "What'd he leave you?"

Ludwig rubbed at the cross, warm against his skin. Somehow he felt revealing it would dull its shine, turn Prussia's parting gift into a cheap charm. Alfred didn't look offended, shrugging it off, suit jacket hooked over his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Lud. I didn't know."

The sun was setting, lighting the windows of the city on fire. They weren't that far from Times Square, from that New Year's, oh so many decades ago. "You kept your promise."

He wrinkled his nose, "Not quite."

Ludwig scoffed, disbelieving. "Alfred, you've done more than enough. Gilbert's passing only means that my country is strong enough to support itself as one nation again. If that is the way we must be, then," he shrugged, "It wasn't in vain."

Alfred clapped him on the back, hard enough to sting, almost enough to knock him off balance. "That's the spirit, Lud!"

His car then arrived, and he wondered if his was last on purpose. They bid no special, secret farewells. America stood alone on those marble steps, standing tall in the setting sun. Something looked off, felt off. He knew of the scandals, the "epidemics" wracking his people. But this was America. And if he wasn't, Germany would help, but until then, _Suum cuique pulchrum est._

* * *

**This day in history, the USSR fell with a democratic vote. It's my own creative freedom where I say Prussia lasted up to this point, this one last piece of history that kept him alive was dissolved on this day, and so I thought it fitting that so would he. I'm sorry! Prussia is one of my favorite characters, so I wanted to do him justice! If you want to cry—go find the YouTube tribute video "Last of My Kind" for Prussia.**

**The rest… the date doesn't matter, just _after_. If you've read my story "Amazing Race," you know I've made this Latin reference before. Suum Cuique was the motto of the Order of the Black Eagle. To each his own is beautiful. Coincidentally, the day of Prussia's death was exactly 215 years since they'd met during the Revolution. Two more chapters!**


	14. September 14th, 2001

**September 14th, 2001**

For a long while, Ludwig thought America untouchable. Cushioned by two oceans, his brother to the north with the longest undefended border in the world, and a tense but manageable sister to the south. That December day, 1941, had shaken that resolve. But since then, America had seen no invaders. Before then, he had not seen enemy boots on the ground since his spat with England, or so he'd heard, in 1812.

Ludwig just wished he'd been there that day. It was midday, when the news broke in Europe, and the world had stood petrified. Three days ago, Germany didn't even remember what he'd been doing at the time. There were planes in the World Trade Center?

By the time he finally made it to American soil after several delays and a reroute to Canada, where he crossed paths with an exhausted Matthew, dead on his feet, Ludwig thought Alfred would be closed off from the world. Matthew apparently had to drag him from aiding his people, trying to quiet him from running into burning buildings screaming _I can't be killed!_

By this time, most of the rest of the world had paid their respects in various fashions. Germany had as well, but Ludwig wanted to do something a little more personal. Maybe Alfred would appreciate it. Maybe Alfred would slam the door in his face. Maybe he should have stayed in Europe.

Alfred, it turned out, did not slam the door in his face. It was ajar, and vacant on the other side. For a moment, Ludwig thought in his delirium, Matthew had given him the wrong address. It looked like he'd been robbed. The couch was overturned, TV off its mount, spiderwebs of cracks across the screen. A broken baseball bat rested abandoned near what remained of a recliner.

_Oh Alfred. You and all your strength were meant for better than this_. If he had been robbed, Ludwig was sure his house would be crawling with men in suits and black sunglasses. He made his way up the stairs, passing several splintered bars of the bannister on his way.

He'd never been to his home in Virginia, an old colonial with the columns outside and molding on the ceiling. The inside he could tell had been painted and repainted over the years, hardwood replaced and restained, never settled on one time period over another. America and his beloved bosses all over the walls, along with a few landscapes he recognized, likely the originals, crooked and skewed. A black-and-white photograph of the Manhattan skyline was the only one untouched.

"Alfred?" He didn't expect a response, but at least now if he was here, Ludwig wouldn't scare him.

After four bedrooms and three bathrooms on the second floor alone, Ludwig found him. He was curled up on top of the sheets, still dressed and smelling like smoke. The curtains were drawn and the air was still. He might've been sleeping.

Ludwig suddenly felt like the very intruder he suspected of some stranger. He was not Arthur. He was not Matthew or Francis or… or Ivan. America did not invite him in, and here he stood regardless.

He made his way around the four-poster bed. If America was asleep, he'd leave his gift and his house with the message on a note instead.

Alfred was not. Blue eyes rimmed with red, white tainted pink with tears. His face was dry, though, expressionless. "I don't know what to do."

There were pancakes on the nightstand. Syrup still and tainted, fluff given way to soggy staleness. Ludwig couldn't decide if it were more awkward to stand there or take up a space by his knees, so he chose the latter. The bed creaked beneath his weight.

Alfred did not look at him. Texas was missing from his face. "What did I do wrong?"

There was a long, rich history Ludwig admitted he was scarcely aware of for parts that did not concern him. This was a side of America he vaguely knew existed, solely because it must, but he'd never thought he'd see it. There were no smiles, no boisterous laughs, no back-breaking claps on the shoulder today.

"I was a hero, wasn't I? So why…"

In Ludwig's eyes, he was. Of course he was. But it was the new millennium, and some people couldn't fathom life without war. He was sure America had heard enough speeches from around the world, there was no new condemnations Germany could give, and none would lift his spirits.

So instead, he rested a hand on his knee. Personally, Nationally, Ludwig didn't care, and he echoed a sentiment Alfred spared him almost a hundred years prior. _I know what it's like, being alone. Don't let it consume you. Call me, America._ "I stand by you, America."

He left the gift and his fancy new cell phone number by his hands, a cheerful brown packet of multicolored chocolate, and spent the rest of the night and the following day fixing his house. Alfred never came downstairs, never mentioned the candy. It wasn't Ludwig's place to force food down his throat. That was Arthur's job. So he left it better than he found it in. What he couldn't repair, replaced with Matthew's guidance, and what he couldn't replace, he left a space. If Alfred wanted to build a replica, he could, if he wanted to build something new, he would.

Ludwig returned home the next day to a missed call while on the plane. America had sent him a text message that simply read: _Danke_.

* * *

**This day in history… The German destroyer _FGS_ _Lütjens_ manned the rails and held a banner that read "we stand by you," in honor and respect to the _USS_ _Winston S. Churchill. _9/11 was more daunting than any other date in history for this fic. Maybe it's because so many of us were alive, if not old enough to remember when it happened if you're reading this. I didn't want to tackle it head-on, and if you want a fic that does that, go read "Breaking". America's question comes from HetaOni.**

**PSA—I'm in the market for cover art for this story. PM me if you're interested! You will be credited, of course.**


	15. July 13th, 2014

**July 13th, 2014**

Germany had won in 1990, but there was something about this victory in Brazil, once his head was finally clear and heart not so burdened by sadness. His face hurt so much from smiling and he didn't care one bit.

He wished Gilbert were here. He was in spirit, certainly. Germany's black and white colors made sure of it. His iron cross was his good luck charm. Ludwig felt like wherever he was, his face was painted black, red, and yellow, and he was screaming _That was totally awesome!_

England was still pissy, but even he couldn't dampen his mood. Everyone congratulated him, France with a little more gusto and a little less care for personal space than he appreciated. Everyone signed a football with their own little quirks and flourishes, Alfred proudly scrawling his "John Hancock," or whatever that meant, across half the circumference of the thing.

None of them could actually play in the game, but they all had their spots on the sidelines, perpetual alternates that never made any headlines. Ludwig was still drenched in sweat from the hours damn near losing his mind and not giving a single fuck.

And now they were out for drinks at some bar along the beach. It was hot and sticky and the Brazilians were not as happy as they could have been if they'd won, but were excitable hosts nonetheless.

Tonight, they were human, doing stupid human things. Arthur was drunk and Francis egged him on. Ivan was there still in that damnable pink scarf. Italy sang his heart out, an operatic rendition of Germany's national anthem while he stood on the bar top.

Alfred draped his arms over the wood, just this side of smashed, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed. He held out a fist. "Good game, dude!"

Ludwig bumped it, the feeling strange. All of this was strange. There was so much attention, so much wild abandon. It was exhilarating… and exhausting. Oh, he would ache in the morning.

"I'm gonna win one of these days, you know? I mean—I already have. My girls kick ass. But, you know—I want it across the board."

Ludwig did know, and one day soon he would. America always fought for the things he wanted until he could fight no more. But this was still friendly competition. Ludwig held up his beer. "The day you do is the day we all call it soccer."

Alfred's laugh was infectious. Beer spilled as they toasted. Arthur somehow turned it into a soapbox for him to whine about Yorktown. All was right with the world.

"I always love the underdog story. Hey, you seen _Any Given Sunday_? It's fantastic. I got the whole speech memorized."

Ludwig suppressed an eyeroll, replying that no, he had not, and no, he was quite alright not hearing it, thank you. And the muggy night burned on, other patrons trickling out, other Nations dragging themselves away.

"That Gilbert?"

He jolted at the question, at the tap to his chest. America stared at the cross outline inquisitively, aware of his intrusion but not caring in the slightest. Ludwig brought a hand to it. "_Ja_."

Alfred nodded, lips pursed. "Shmancy."

Ludwig didn't even know what that meant. "Thank you, America."

Alfred hummed, and he realized he never said that before, not for everything. Alfred didn't give him the chance.

"Ya wanna go back to my place?"

Ludwig blanked. "Your hotel?"

"New York."

"…Right now?"

"Right now."

It sounded so irresponsible. It was one thing to stray in the same city, but to leave the country—the continent—"Why?"

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Because we can."

And so they did. Ludwig stopped to pick up his bags, Alfred tried to fenagle the pilot of his jet into leaving early, then decided to just fly it himself, consequences be damned. Next week, they were back to diplomacy. To scandals and epidemics and crossed fingers and disasters. Ludwig's boss would barely recognize him for his impulsiveness.

Alfred belted out some song as they hit the tarmac. _Closing time… one last call for alcohol so finish your whisky or beer…_

It was a long way up from rock bottom, and there were M&Ms in the cockpit.

* * *

**This day in history, Germany won the men's World Cup in Brazil. The song is "Closing Time," by Semisonic. And I totally did not choose it for the two drinks mentioned, that's just a happy coincidence and wonderful callback.**

**Thank you so much for reading guys! I hope you liked it. I did my best to keep them in-character over the years, and I think I did a pretty damn good job. The opportunity for cover art will remain open indefinitely so don't be shy! It's been an awesome few weeks and I'm happy to say this story's complete.**


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